


respite

by soundthebells (kosy)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Directly Post MAG160, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, at least they have each other?, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:15:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22504645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kosy/pseuds/soundthebells
Summary: “Martin,” he finally says. Sounds hollowed out. The Eye watches them from above, impassive and jaundice yellow. “It all went wrong.”“I know,” Martin says, and then, nonsensically, “It’s okay.” Twenty minutes’ respite, and then they will stand up and figure out what to do next, and he has to keep telling himself that, or he’ll never get up again at all.After the end of the world, Jon and Martin try to cope.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 26
Kudos: 165





	respite

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know, man. i needed to write something, and i'm not sure that this was what i was trying to write? necessarily? but it was better than nothing, i guess. please do enjoy regardless <3

Martin allows them twenty minutes.

Just twenty minutes to kneel there on the floor next to where Jon has collapsed. Twenty minutes, and then they can get up and face this thing. But Jon—his body has been shaking almost convulsively ever since he saw that vast eye staring in through their window. He was still conscious even after hitting the ground but so dazed it hardly seemed to matter, trembling as he oscillated between that awful, shuddery laugh and then sobs so deep they sounded like somebody was pulling apart his lungs with just their fingers. All Martin could do was gather him close, rocking him gently and trying to bracket him in, hold Jon inside himself with just his bare human hands. He’s not sure what he says in that time, likely only a few minutes but so thick with fear and grief it stretches out into a small eternity in his mind as a litany of desperation pours out of him, murmured and choked, into Jon’s ear. He tries to lose himself in the small motion, back and forth, smoothing a hand along Jon’s arm and feeling his fingertips catch on where the skin has gone rough with scarring. Jon is unresponsive except for that horrific trembling. 

The tremors subside in time. Jon’s breathing still comes fast, even after the hitching sobs stop, but at least his eyes are open now, dark and tear-reddened and inexplicably wrong-looking but still looking right back at Martin. He isn’t sure if he’s crying or not, and he doesn’t think it even really matters anymore. 

“Jon,” he whispers, and his throat is raw. Twenty minutes, and then they can fight it, except that he’s lost track of time.

No reply except for those two dark eyes fluttering shut. He realizes what’s wrong with an odd jolt—the pupils are blurring into the deep brown irises, muddling together like watercolor. The edges of Jon, they’re starting to go hazy. Mostly not physically. Hardly enough to notice. But it’s wrong, all wrong. He tightens his grip on the other man like that will make him stay. 

“Martin,” he finally says. Sounds hollowed out. The Eye watches them from above, impassive and jaundice-yellow. “It all went wrong.”  
“I know,” Martin says, and then, nonsensically, “It’s okay.” Twenty minutes’ respite, and he has to keep telling himself that, or he’ll never get up at all. 

Jon scoffs, eyes open again. It—hurts. He looks distant, already half-gone, inhuman in the sickly glow from outside. 

“We’ll survive this,” Martin tells him with far more confidence than he feels. Jon pushes himself upright with great effort, arm shaking as he shoves off of the ground, and Martin resists the urge to catch him with a hand and keep him from falling. The Archivist looks at Martin for a long moment, tilts his head. There’s a pale imitation of a smile on his face as he curls his burnt hand into the sleeve of Martin’s flannel, wavering and collapsing into something so exhausted and heartwrenchingly broken he almost can’t meet his gaze. 

His voice is so, so soft when he speaks. “Maybe. But I don’t think I deserve to.” 

“Jon—” Martin starts, all the caustic, desolate rage that claws at his chest shoving its way out of him in that one syllable, but Jon doesn’t let him get any further than that, dragging him in for a kiss that feels more vicious than anything else, teeth clacking together painfully until they can get into something resembling a rhythm. Martin doesn’t pull away; instead, he leans in harder, puts one hand on the back of Jon’s neck and one on his hip, feeling the sharp, bony edge beneath his palm. Jon’s skin is clammy-cold, and he’s still shivering violently, but he seems determined to make Martin forget that momentarily, twisting fingers up in his hair and kissing him so slow and deep he starts to feel lightheaded. It’s so often like this with Jon, hungry and ferocious and sharp-toothed; the first time they’d kissed they’d clung to each other as if drowning and desperate to take each other down with them. And he needs that, sometimes, something to anchor him into his own body, angry and mean and hopeless, understands that Jon needs it too. But with the apocalypse raging outside and the man he loves still weeping helplessly in his arms (he can feel the wetness on his cheeks, can taste the salt on his lips) and everything so raw and torn and futile, he can’t—he doesn’t—Martin tries to ease back, but Jon follows in an overwhelming rush of motion, teeth scraping against his lower lip in a way that makes him gasp in spite of everything else. Against his mouth, Jon is laughing at him breathily for it, or maybe just crying again. 

Martin breaks the kiss as gently as he can and brings up a hand to cradle Jon’s jaw. “Hey,” he tries, voice low, but Jon won’t meet his eyes, just stares off into space, unfocused. He doesn’t hold it against him. 

“We have to go,” he says blankly and tries to scramble to his feet, but it’s no struggle for Martin to pull him back down. He’s so thin. So light. 

“Not yet,” Martin murmurs, keeps his tone quiet and soothing. Twenty minutes. The world is burning outside. Thunder, or something once like thunder, roars, and he cannot tell how far away it is. He feels—ragged. Exhausted in a way he hasn’t experienced in weeks, since the Lonely, or maybe ever. 

He expects Jon to fight him, to argue back as he always does. Expects fire and recklessness and cruel words that never quite get taken back. 

But Jon just nods. Once, hesitantly, and then again. 

“Okay.” Without even looking behind him, he reaches up and draws the blinds, shutting out the Eye. It’s a good gesture, regardless of its effectiveness, and it releases a tension curled up inside him he didn’t even know he’d been carrying. The room is thrown into darkness, but Martin can’t even bring himself to care, can only hope it isn’t Darkness. Every muscle in his body aches. Their time in the safehouse before now seems—surreal. Just those few halcyon weeks, sunlight and fog and nights in a shared bed and hair sliding beneath his hands and dry, warm lips pressed chastely against his and bottles of cheap wine and a crackling hearth and meals cooked in a cramped kitchen and slow, lazy mornings. It might as well have been another life or maybe just a dream of what his life _could_ have been. If things had been different. There was a time when he could imagine that everything would turn out alright, he thinks. There had to have been. It can’t have been like this forever, this feeling that they are walking on broken legs toward a dawn that won’t ever come. 

Jon curls against his chest. Martin can still hear how his breath hitches with each inhale and shudders on each exhale, and he pulls him closer, presses a kiss against his forehead. 

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, muffled against Martin’s shirt. “Christ, Martin, I’m sorry. About everything.” 

He wants, so badly, to tell him it’s okay. That everything will turn out alright in the end. But Tim is dead and Daisy is gone and Melanie has torn herself to shreds in exchange for freedom and Basira is empty and Sasha is Not and the world is ending right on the other side of their door and nothing about them is special, nothing about them exempts them from whatever their twisted fate may be, and Martin cannot lie to him. 

So he tells him what is true. 

“I love you,” Martin whispers. 

Jon exhales, fingers tightening where he’s holding on to Martin so hard it nearly hurts, and he looks at him with wide eyes that seem to take in all light, so unnatural but so human in their vulnerability, as Jon always has been, eerie and strange and endlessly loved. “I—I’m with you, Martin. Always.” It is enough, Jon’s breath on his skin, the roughness of his fingertips, the stumbling affection that pushes its way through at the edges. 

Martin closes his eyes and tries to remember what it is like to be okay. They stay that way for a while. Listen to the far-off screams from outside, the manic distant music, the dull howl of an earth falling apart. 

Finally, Martin opens his eyes again. Lifts Jon’s hand to his lips and kisses the knuckle, just below where a ring might sit if they stay alive, stay _themselves_ , long enough to get one. Jon seems to understand, and his eyes soften, focus back in, if only for a moment. 

Steeling himself, Martin takes a breath. 

“It’s time to go,” he says, and, together, they leave the safehouse.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! i hope this made you feel things. and, of course, sorry for any mistakes—all my work is horrifically unedited by anybody but me, and it's late and i'm only human, ya know? but leave a comment if you feel inclined, feel free to find me on tumblr @akosyy (i am now offically-unoffically taking fic requests and stuff), and thanks again! :)


End file.
